“Fuck your ass is tight!” Mark moaned. “I’m going to cream in your slutty fucking ass!”
“Ohh yes, ma chérie!” Monique moaned. “Eat my clam! Oh, yes, Jouir de, jouir de!”
Monique started a chain reaction, as her tart juices flowed into my mouth, I felt my own orgasm exploded in my cunt, writhing throughout my body, my juices flooding into Lize’s lips as she nibbled on my labia. Then she was moaning into my cunt, her ass must be clenching on Mark’s cock as she came. And then Mark was grunting, slamming one last time into Lize as he spilled his cum into her ass.
Mark pulled out, his cock dirty and we all scrambled to find our seats. The bodyguards were disengaging from each other. No one had their clothes on. Not even the pilots. During the flight they each took turns coming back to get fucked and we could see them naked through the open door to the cockpit as the plane started to descend into LaGuardia Airport.
After we landed, everyone put on their clothes. The bodyguard’s put back on their slutty cop outfits and belted on their gunbelts. We brought Squad B with us: 15, 16, 23, 24, 32, and 34. We left 23 and 24 to watch the plane with the pilots. Mary kissed both our stewardess. “Thank you for making it such a memorable flight,” she told them. “We plan on leaving at four, New York time, on Sunday. So have fun until then.”
Monique and Lize giggled. They were dressed in their regular clothing. “Shopping on Fifth Avenue,” Monique sighed happily.
“Let’s spend our husband’s money and then find some young studs to fuck us silly!” Lize declared, hooking her arm around Monique and the pair headed off into the airport.
I arrange the transportation. Two NYPD cruisers waited for the bodyguard’s to drive and a limousine. “I asked for the hottest driver they had,” I told Mark. “So finger’s crossed that we get a looker.”
Mark grinned as we waked up, his arm resting on my hip. I was wearing a tight, red dress that clung to my body. The skirt was short and if I bent over anyone could see I wasn’t wearing underwear. Mark was in his usual jeans, a new pair I bought for him that fit his slimmer body better and made his ass look so scrumptious, along with some band’s T-shirt.
“The Glassners?” a woman asked as she got out of the limo. She was a tall woman with an angelic face and beautiful lips. Her hair was bleached blonde and tied up at the nape of her neck. A black, chauffeur’s cap rested on her head and she was dressed in a traditional chauffeur’s outfit; black slacks, black jacket and white, buttoned-down shirt with a red and orange striped tie.
“Yeah, I’m Mark and this is Mary.”
I looked her up and down and smiled. She had a nice pair of breasts that filled out her shirt quite nicely. “What’s your name?”
“Leah,” she answered with a big smile.
“Well, Leah, you’re going to be our slutty chauffeur,” I told her. “Where’s the nearest sex shop, we need to get you properly dressed.”
“You must be Monsieur Fitzsimmons?” a graceful woman with olive skin asked with a thick, French accent. She was dressed in a gray habit, belted about her slim waist, a white veil draped across her head, covering her dark hair, and a white stole that hung about her neck, hanging down the front of her habit almost all the way to the floor. “I am Mother Superior Maryam, please come in.” She couldn’t be the Mother Superior, she looked like she was eighteen.
I followed her into the stone building, the floors were covered in worn Persian rugs and led me through the tight corridors to a surprisingly modern kitchen and motioned to a wooden chair at a small table. “Tea?”
“Eh, yes,” I answered. Tea wasn’t my thing, but I didn’t want to be rude. Not when I was here to ask a favor.
She grabbed a porcelain tea pot, steam rising from the spout, and set two porcelain cups before us, pouring the fragrant tea. “Now, you said you were interested in a book, no?” she asked in her heavy, French accent, spooning sugar into her tea. She savored the aroma of the tea and then took a sip.
“Yes, it is called the Magicks of the Witch of Endor,” I answered.
“And why would you want that book, Monsieur Fitzsimmons?”
“Academic research,” I lied. “I have an interest in esoteric texts.”
A dangerous smile appeared on the Mother Superior’s face. “And what is the real reason, sir?”
“Like I said…” Her dark eyes stared at me, suddenly so ancient and wise, pinning me to my seat. How could you lie to a soul that old. I swallowed, trying to think but it was hard. “My wife was taken by a Warlock. A vile man named Mark Glassner.”
She cocked her head, eying me, peering into my soul like a scientist peering at a germ beneath his microscope. “Yes, that is a truth, not the whole truth.”
“No, I just want to get back my wife,” I protested as her eyes bore into me. “Okay, and to get some payback against Mark. But the bastard stole my wife from me. Made her…be his whore.” The surveillance photos Doug Allard took flashed through my mind of Desiree fucking Mark, Mary, the SWAT officers, and all those other women in my house.
“And if you had this book you would, what, defeat Mark and free your wife? And then what would you do? Nothing?” she asked pointedly. “No, I do not think so. I can see the ambition, the lust for power in your soul. You did not come here for Desiree, that is the lie you tell yourself. You came here for power.”
“Of course I want to free my wife!” I shouted, slamming my fist. “And I need power to do it!”
“Why?” she asked. “Your wife does not love you. Deep down you have always known it. She married you for your money and you married Desiree for her beauty. No, you want what Mark has. You are jealous of his power, lust after for, want it for your very own.”
“No, I love my wife,” I protested. I mean, I always had lingering doubts about Desiree’s motivation to marry me. But, I loved her. She was so gorgeous, so generous, how could I not love her.
“Like you loved your first wife?”
Why was she bringing up that slut. My eyebrows furrowed as I puzzled out her intentions. “I did love her,” I carefully said, “until she whored around behind my back and made me look like a complete idiot.”
“And is that why you beat her?”
Fuck, how could she know that. Something burned my hand and I realized my fist was shaking so badly, tea spilling onto my hand. “She didn’t listen,” I protested, setting down the tea cup. “If she only listened, I wouldn’t have had to…correct her.”
That fucking smile played on the bitch’s lips and those eyes seemed to spear right through me, like I was dirt. “And how long would it have been before Desiree would need…correction?” she asked.
My anger was burning inside me. How did this cunt know anything about Maryanne. This fucking slut was standing in the way of me and rescuing my Desiree. My fists were itching. Maybe this bitch needed some…correcting. My eyes glanced to the counter and the block of knives. That would show the bitch.
“Just let me have the book and I’ll do what you fucking nuns can’t seem to do!” My anger exploded out of me and my fist slammed into the table. A mocking laugh escaped her lips. Not fear, not surprise, but derision and dismissal. The gall of this bitch. She doesn’t even respect the fact I could leap over this table and beat her bloody. Or grab one of those knives and really teach her a lesson.
“There is that darkness that drove Maryanne right into the arms of her lover.”
“She was a whore!” I growled. “I gave her everything! Every goddamn thing the cunt wanted.”
“All she wanted was a husband who didn’t beat her,” Maryam calmly answered, sipping her tea. “Go, Monsieur Fitzsimmons, there is nothing for you here.”
The knives were just a few feet away. Let see this bitch refuse me when I have a knife at her throat, the bitch will respect me then. Just get up and grab the knife, Brandon. Don’t let this cunt stand between you and your wife. Take control of your destiny! Her fucking eyes were boring into me. Maybe I’ll cut those fucking eyes out. Make me feel like an insect, cunt. You can’t do that without any eyes.
I bolted up, the chair falling backwards, as I reached for the knife. The bitch didn’t even move, save to sip her tea. The wooden handle was cold and hard and the blade rasped as I pulled it out of the block. Her fucking eyes still bored into me, like I was some piece of filth, a fucking annoying insect. Fine, if I’m an insect, here is my stinger. I lounged forward, stabbing at the bitch.
Motion blurred from the right, pain flared in my right hand and the knife clattered to the floor. A tall man, young and fit, stood next to me, his hand iron on my arm as he squeezed. I groaned in pain, falling to my knees. I looked into the man’s face, full of righteous anger. There was something familiar about his face, about his blue eyes. If he was older, maybe, and wore glasses. And if he was balding and had a fat face.
“Doug?” I moaned through gritted teeth. No, that was impossible. This man could be Doug’s son, certainly, but not my P.I., Doug. I mean, Doug was in his forties and this man was at most eighteen or nineteen and easily seventy pounds lighter than Doug, with a full head of hair and a chiseled jaw.
“Brandon, I should rip your head off,” the man growled, his voice sound just like Doug’s. Maybe a little less gravelly. It was Doug. But how? “Did you even think for a moment what would happen to me when you sent those photos to the media.”
“Wh-why would that b-be a problem?” I stammered. “Please, you’re hurting me, Doug.”
“Because Mark captured me,” the impossibly young Doug growled. “He sent me to kill you, Brandon! Did you give one fucking thought about me. I could be dead right now, no thanks to you.”
“I-I told you he was dangerous,” I squeaked in protested. “Besides, how could he find you?”
“Any idiot could figure out where those pictures were taken from!” Doug snarled, squeezing harder. Fuck, it felt like my bone was about to snap. “You put me in danger. Mark easily could have gone after my wife! But you were too selfish to even give one damned thought about me.”
“I didn’t think…” I started to say, gasping in pain as Doug started to twist.
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